Title: Narrow Freedom
Series: Bleach
Pairing: Ichigo/Rukia
Words: 570
AN: Let's try this again. Still learing to deal with Bleach characters.
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But you know that I'll forgive you
Just this once, twice forever
Cause baby, you could drag me to Hell and back
Just as long as we're together
«Freedom» by George Michael
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This window is too narrow.
Actually, it's not even a window, she thinks bitterly and with disdain – it is more like a crack in the wall, as if made with a sword, tall in height and little in width. So small it is, so small, she muses further and her blood churns faster. This miniature picture of freedom that she can only dream of from now on. And if she looks too much at it, the picture will turn so small that she can't even pull through it, not that she wishes to do so, anyway.
Still, this frame stays the same – a little, tiny crack that saddens her smiles and dulls her eyes, and she hates it, just sitting there in the middle of the large wall. To her it seems as if it is challenging her, calling her out to a fight or just a round of a few screams. Much like someone she knows.
She tries really hard to stay away from the window over the day, but as the day nears its end she cannot resist anymore, she gives in (she never could resist, anyhow) and in the end she sits down by it's frame and wishes it was a bit more soft like the other (lean and muscular; strong and protective) surface she knows. When she averts her eyes from the floor and up, up, up, she can only see the vast, endless sky, blue and white and so clean. She thinks – if not a bit too clean.
And then the thought again - too narrow.
There is a moment in the setting of the Sun when she feels cold and hot all in the same. It's just a brief feeling, a tremor that passes through her body, while something behind her ribcage stops and skips a beat, and her breath clogs in her lungs. It's hard to breathe for that tinny second and her body aches. Her mind remembers another sky – painted like a picture, full of colors and life and endless possibilities. Full of freedom which almost seems reachable, this makes her wish she knew how to fly. Properly.
A blink and the feeling is gone, and all that is left is a solemn tune of regret singing in her veins. She turns her head away as the time passes – nights come and go, minutes tick by, slowly and agonizingly, but the sky does not change. It stays in that stubborn (just like him, she thinks and feels sorry) color of blue, and rash, unpredictable (just like him she thinks and dares to feel hopeful) clouds often dare to block most of her view.
The window – or is it just a crack? – is still too narrow.
Every day, in that one moment where day turns into night, Rukia closes her eyes and dreams of freedom that is painted only in orange.
o-o-o
o-o-o
In a completely different place, Ichigo stares at the window and wishes that the Moon was some other colour but white.